


Blood In The Water

by Moraith



Category: Persona 3
Genre: Blood Drinking, Force-Feeding, Gen, Horror, Other, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 19:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18453203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moraith/pseuds/Moraith
Summary: Makoto spends the entire duration of the typhoon that got the culture festival canceled delirious with fever and unable to function. Somewhere in the middle, Pharos stops by to lend a helping hand.Note: The mature rating is because it's creepy and gross, not because it's porn. Sorry to disappoint(?).





	Blood In The Water

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a writing exercise for practice a good long while back. I reread it today and liked it. Thumbs up.

Bright red blood splatters against Makoto’s window in sheets. He is so delirious with fever that for a long moment, he doesn’t notice that that is unusual. Something howls outside, long and loud. Makoto’s first thought is that he lost a few weeks while he was sick and it’s the next Full Moon Shadow, but that probably doesn’t make sense. He’d have died at some point if it had been that long. He does not get as far as figuring out what  _ is _ going on. If it’s not Shadow stuff, it doesn’t have to be his job. Mitsuru will deal with the heavens opening up and raining blood some other day.

He wheezes in a weak breath, then sighs it out too quickly. His own breath tastes sour and hot on his tongue. Every time he inhales, he feels like he’s scraping broken glass down his entire throat. There’s a sink on the other side of the room. He  _ should _ stand up and get some water before the dehydration makes him sicker, he’s pretty sure. He doesn’t want to. Not that not wanting to do something has ever stopped him before. 

Makoto manages to tug his blankets off even though his arms feel strange and heavy and alien. His skin is clammy and slick with sweat. The cold air makes the bare skin on his arms and legs tingle and his hair stand on end. He’s too hot, so the cool air should feel good. It doesn’t. Now he feels too hot and too cold at once, somehow. He rolls over and kicks his legs over the edge of the bed, then stays there, collapsed face-down on the sheets, his legs lying useless on the floor, until he can work up the energy to stand.

If Makoto doesn’t open his eyes, the rhythmic pounding of the blood against the glass is soothing. It’s loud enough to drown out his own wheezing, which is almost enough to make him forget how hard it is to breathe. He isn’t intending to fall asleep again, but he can’t keep his eyes open and his head keeps getting foggier and he can’t quite remember how to move.

Suddenly, there are cool fingertips pressing against the back of Makoto’s neck. No, not cool; cold, like ice. He relaxes involuntarily into the touch with a quiet whimper of relief.

“Do you want my help?” Pharos asks. His voice is mild and soft and gently inquisitive, like it always is. It sounds more like a real question and less like an offer for assistance than it probably ought to, but Makoto can’t bring himself to care. He does not have the strength to respond quite yet; he hopes Pharos can make a leap of logic and take that as a yes.

The cold fingers, which must belong to Pharos, snake up Makoto’s neck. They reach forward, brushing against his ear, stealing the tingling feverish heat from his skin as they move. The fingers disappear for a moment, then there’s a palm pressed up against Makoto’s forehead and covering his eyes. Pharos’s hand is cold and soothing and Makoto leans into it with a sigh of gratitude. It is getting harder and harder to stay conscious with the worst of the fever banished. The all-encompassing heat is gone. Makoto’s limbs get heavier and heavier by the instant as the pounding of the rain (it must be rain and his eyes must not be working) lulls him back to sleep.

“Wait,” Pharos says. The rim of a glass, cool and solid, presses against Makoto’s dry cracked lips. “You should drink something before you sleep. Otherwise… I have a feeling everything will turn out wrong.”

Makoto does not know what that means. Like most things Pharos says, it sounds bad. Like most things Pharos says, it is probably true. With Pharos’s fingers guiding him, he manages to lift his head up off his bed. Pharos presses his fingers against Makoto’s jaw and makes gentle encouraging noises until Makoto opens his mouth, then tilts the glass back so the liquid can flow.

The sharp tang of salt and copper hits Makoto’s tongue. His eyes fly open and he sees Pharos looking down at him and a glass filled with dark red liquid pressed against his lips. Makoto gags. He coughs violently and shoves Pharos away with the last of the strength in his trembling arms. Blood spills out of his mouth and down his chin and neck and the front of his shirt. More of it splashes out of the glass and onto his face as Pharos staggers back. The fever returns at full force. Makoto hovers his hands near his mouth, but there’s nothing he can do to get the taste of blood off his tongue. Drool drips down his chin as he gulps in air like he’s been drowning, his jaw hanging open. Tears well up in his eyes and he can’t breathe and his stomach churns dangerously. He cannot sit up right; he cannot move at all. If he throws up, it will end up all over him and maybe he’ll choke and die. Makoto’s head is on fire and he cannot think.

Pharos moves forward again. Makoto cannot see him properly through the tears, but he has a feeling Pharos is smiling at him. One of Pharos’s hands rests on the back of Makoto’s head, pinning him in place; the other forces his jaw to stay open. The glass is pressed to his lips again and that seems like it’s too many hands for one person, but Makoto can’t see and maybe he’s dying and at this point it doesn’t really matter. The glass tilts back. Blood pours into Makoto’s mouth. He starts to choke on it, but some self-preservation instinct buried deep inside him kicks in and forces him to swallow. 

Ice cold blood keeps flowing into his mouth, congealed blobs slipping over his tongue and down his throat. Once it becomes clear that Makoto isn’t fighting, Pharos stops pinning him down in favor of running his fingers through Makoto’s hair and cooing sweetly at him. Pharos does not give Makoto a chance to stop. With liquid flowing down his throat, he cannot breathe. His chest burns; before long, he is so lightheaded he is certain he will faint. 

And then the last of the blood drains from the cup. Pharos pulls it back away from Makoto’s lips. He says something, but Makoto cannot hear it past his own desperate gasping breaths. Every corner of his mouth tastes like blood. The copper is caught between his teeth and under his tongue. It is inescapable. Makoto’s room sways and spins, then everything goes black.

* * *

It is still raining when Makoto wakes up. He is still collapsed half on his bed and half on the floor. Every muscle in his body is sore, but he no longer feels like his skin is about to burn up. His fever must have broken during the night.

He looks down at the front of his shirt. It is damp, having been soaked through with water that has not quite had a chance to dry. His mouth does not taste like copper. He glances at the sheets he is lying on. There is no blood there, either; only water. 

Makoto hauls himself back up onto the bed and tugs the blankets back over him. He was desperate for water before, but his throat does not feel so painfully dry now. He does not know what happened, if he had a nightmare or if Pharos was really there or if the fever was making him hallucinate, but whatever it was, it is over. He falls asleep easily, then wakes up two days later feeling refreshed and healthy, having forgotten about everything.


End file.
